2AM
by Some1tookmyname
Summary: From The Woman in the Sand: What if Booth had gone looking for Brennan while she was out gambling? M for language, nothing more.


A/N: This might be the most confusing author's note ever. Please bear with me.

This is a story written for the lovely nelliesbones. She gave me a prompt MONTHS ago in exchange for a prompt from me. She wrote my story and I slacked off on writing hers. I could not come up with a good way to write her what she wanted.

But I'm not going to tell you what the prompt was. Not yet.

Instead I will tell you this: I rewatched "The Woman in the Sand" (aka the Vegas ep) the other day. Independently of me, so did jenlovesbones. She happened to notice that Booth kind of seems desperate for Brennan to stay in Vegas. I agreed.

I was lucky enough that jadedrepartee ALSO happened to watch the ep. And she heard a line that I, for whatever reason, really hadn't caught before.

Brennan says_ "I couldn't sleep last night so I snuck off to play a little Crap."_

If you are alone in your room you don't need to sneak anywhere. For me this cements the "one room" theory. (The other theory being adjoining rooms.)

So this is the prompt for the story that leads to the other prompt from nelliesbones (which I'm still not going to tell you:)

**What if Booth had awakened and realized Brennan had left the room to "play a little Crap?"**

Thanks jenlovesbones and jadedrepartee for your help. And to my friend, nelliesbones, I hope this is a least a little of what you hoped for. :)

* * *

Booth realizes almost instantly that the hotel room he just woke up in is not exactly the same as the one he fell asleep in.

It is the same in all the ways that it should be. He's in the same chair. The same dresser and nightstands are outlined in the dim light that seeps through the window. He can see into the bathroom and their bags of toiletries are on the counter. Brennan's suitcase is visible through the closet door that sits slightly ajar. The lamps and wall décor are all the same.

But the bed is different.

Because she's not in it.

"Bones?" He whispers, just in case.

Silence.

"Bones?" Louder now, but still no response.

He throws back the blanket that was covering him and stands up to scan the room, his back protesting loudly with twinges and cracks. He sees her phone on the desk and next to it, the hotel notepad with a pen laying diagonally on top of it. He crosses the room and confirms his suspicions.

"_Booth- Couldn't sleep, thought I'd try my hand at Crap. Take the bed.-Brennan"_

He decides instantly that nothing good can come of his partner alone in the casino. He imagines card counting, odds calculating and God only knows what other trouble she could conjure up just by being who she is. Before he can even fully process why he feels the need to rescue her all the damn time, he's got his pajama pants off, his jeans on, and is headed out the door to find her.

It's just past 2AM, but that is of little to no consequence in a Vegas casino. There are no windows. There are no clocks. There is no normal observation of bedtimes or eating times or alcohol times.

Everything goes in Vegas, at any time of day.

He steps off the elevator and is immediately assaulted by the sound of bells and money falling from slot machines into coin trays; levers being pulled and buttons being pushed and instantly, he feels like he drowning. He can't breathe quite right and he has to blink hard and concentrate to remember the task at hand.

"_Find Bones,"_ he thinks to himself, and manages to put one foot in front of the other in the direction of the craps tables.

He doesn't see her. He scans each table but she's not there. He turns a slow circle, scanning the faces in the crowd, searching the perimeter of his immediate surroundings.

She isn't anywhere that he can see.

He begins to walk, his hands shoved into his pockets like a man trying desperately to keep something tucked away.

And he is.

The itch to gamble has been plaguing him since he's arrived. He's been able to tamp it down, but every time he has, she's been standing right next to him, distracting him and he's been able to redirect himself. But now she isn't there and the addiction feels like it is invading him in a way he hadn't thought it could anymore.

It's not just the sounds of the machines. It's the smell. It's the voices. It's the sounds of dice on felt, spinning roulette wheels, the shuffling cards, the clanking chips, the cheers for the winners and the sounds of sympathy for the losers.

And those goddamn bells.

He doesn't know how long he's been searching before he realizes there is no order to what he is doing; no system. He will never find her if he doesn't _think._

He pulls out his phone and calls her number. If she went back to the room, he doesn't need to be there. He hopes it is a matter of her going upstairs to their room as he was coming downstairs to the casino and that he can abandon the rescue mission he is on and get the hell out of dodge.

She doesn't answer.

He needs a plan.

Or maybe he needs to let her be. She's a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself. Maybe he shouldn't worry about her. Maybe he should let her figure it out on her own and worry about himself. Being there alone isn't good for him.

But there are rules in Vegas. Real, written rules and the serious, unwritten ones as well. If anyone can obliviously violate those rules and get into trouble, it will be her.

He is fairly certain that she is still somewhere in their hotel's casino because she didn't take her phone. If she was planning on leaving the building, she would have taken it with her.

He doubts she is at any of the slot machines. She'd figure out quickly that the odds were low, the reliance on luck too high. It wouldn't be her game of choice.

She wasn't at the craps tables and roulette seems unlikely as well.

Cards. She'd most likely find a card game.

And if she'd learned to keep her mouth shut about the value of the face cards and how to figure out what was most likely to come next, she'd have the most success at Blackjack.

He begins to head towards the area with the ten dollar tables, because he can't imagine her betting big money, when he spots her at a twenty dollar table, all class and beauty among the average and ordinary.

Suddenly he can focus well enough to realize that the dealer looks annoyed and the pit boss is lurking nearby and he knows nothing good is about to happen. He takes six quick steps to where she sits and speaks into her ear: "You'll stay."

She doesn't miss a beat; doesn't seem surprised to hear him other than the way her spine straightens the smallest bit. "I'll lose," she says, her eyes never leaving the cards.

"That's the point." He throws a casual grin at the dealer. "You're done."

"But—"

"Just, come back to the room, okay?" He doesn't mean to let the pleading tone bleed through his nonchalance but it does, even to his own ears. It's a little easier to ignore the itch when he's with her, but he wonders how long that will last if he stays there, on the floor, where the pull is strongest. He has to go back upstairs and the only way that's happening is if she goes, too.

She turns her gaze to him now and he can feel her trying to read him. He tries to keep his face neutral as she studies him.

"Stay," she tells the dealer, her eyes never leaving her partner.

As predicted, she loses.

"You need to cash out or anything?" He hopes like hell she says no.

"I did after I played crap."

"Craps," he corrects automatically. "Great. Let's go." He practically hauls her to her feet and steers her towards the elevator bank.

"Is something wrong?" She has to yell over the winning slot machine bell that goes off as she speaks.

"What?"

"Did something happen? With the case?" They pass the winner and she can lower her volume a little. "You seem in a hurry."

"Nah. It's just, you know…it's late." He excuses his behavior and hopes she believes him.

"Okay." Her voice is doubtful as they step into the elevator and he punches the button for their floor.

"I woke up, you weren't there. It's the middle of the night. I just figured I'd come get ya before you lost track of time and ended up not getting any sleep." He's not about to tell her he was worried about her and he's definitely not going to tell her how thankful he is that the doors have shut and they are moving away from the torture of the casino.

"I was just about to come up." She says and the only noise now is the hum of the elevator and then the ping as the doors open on their floor.

He doesn't say anything else, but he can still feel her occasional glances in his direction, as if she knows _something_, but just hasn't figured it all out quite yet.

He slides the keycard through the slot and pushes the door to their room open, allowing her to go through first.

"I'm going to take a shower," she tells him. "I smell like cigarette smoke."

"I'm gonna…" he points at the chair.

"No, Booth. Take the bed. Really. I can sleep in the chair."

He doesn't want to argue. He just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep. He feels like he's fought a battle at 2AM and he is exhausted. This is the first time since he quit that it's been this hard.

But he just nods and she when she closes the bathroom door behind her, he kicks off his shoes, takes off his jeans and slips back into his pajama pants. Noticing the vague air of smoke on his shirt, he changes into another, then turns on a low light so his partner can see and settles back into the chair.

He hears bells.

They are in his head, of course, but he can hear them, just the same.

He can't get comfortable and it has nothing to do with the chair and everything to do with the fact that he feels like he is coming out of his skin.

He gets up, pulls his poker chip out of the pocket of the jeans he was wearing earlier and stares at it. His desire to remain the victor over his addiction is in a tug of war with his compulsion. If he slips now, if he loses his footing, the gambling will win.

He worries the chip with his fingers as he paces the room. He can do this; he knows that he can. He's done it before. He's walked away and stayed away. He can do it now, too.

It's just so much harder in Vegas.

Vaguely, it registers that the shower has turned off and as his internal battle rages on, the only thing he knows for sure is that he does not want to drag her into this. He does not want her pity. He does not want her to think less of him. He does not want her to worry.

He doesn't stop to realize that her support might be the best thing for him. He's far too in his own head to think clearly. He puts the chip on the desk, slides back into the chair, pulls the blanket up and tries to regulate his breathing. If she thinks he is asleep, she won't ask any questions.

He closes his eyes when he hears the door handle turn and when the door opens he hears her let out an exasperated sigh. He imagines her face is all scrunched up in irritation at finding him back in the chair.

With a huff she crosses to the bed. He hears the sheets rustle and with a click, she turns off the lights.

Now if only he can sleep.

His heart is still beating fast, he's pretty sure he's got the cold sweats, and by now he's just plain pissed off that it's affecting him this way. He's hot under the blanket and throws it off, but he's a bit cool without it so he pulls it back up. His back aches when he lies on his side, but he gets a kink in his neck when he leans straight back.

And he still hears bells.

He's forgotten, momentarily, that he is supposed to be asleep, but he supposes it doesn't really matter because she is asleep and can't hear his restlessness.

Except she isn't.

"I told you to take the bed" she says, her voice scratchier than usual from the cloud of nicotine laced smoke that hangs over the entire city. "I would have been fine in the chair."

"I'm fine in the chair, too, Bones. Just…go to sleep, okay?"

"I can't. You are making a lot of noise over there."

"I'm just trying to get comfortable."

"Comfortable?"

"Yes."

"So you are fine in the chair, but not comfortable," she clarifies.

"As soon as I _get_ comfortable I _will be_ fine." He is short with her, but he can't do the bickering thing at the moment. "Can we just go to sleep now?"

"Do you want to share?"

"Excuse me?"

"The bed. Do you want to share the bed?"

"No."

"It's not a big deal, Booth."

"I'm fine, Bones."

"It's a big bed."

He considers it. He's not fine and he's not comfortable and if he can get comfortable maybe he can go to sleep.

And if he can go to sleep, maybe the bells and everything else will go away.

So he gives in. "Okay."

"Really?" She sounds surprised.

"Unless you don't want me to."

"If I didn't want you to, I wouldn't offer." She moves over to one side of the mattress to make space for him.

He hesitates, but only for a second, before he climbs into the bed beside her.

The bed is not as big as she claimed.

He lays rigid on his back, unable to relax and he knows now that sleep isn't going to come easy no matter what.

"Why are you so tense?" She says into the dark.

"I am _not_ tense."

"Your mandible is more firmly set that normal and your phalanges are curled into fists."

He uncurls his fists. "I'm fine."

"Is it because we kissed once?"

"Bones!" He screws his eyes shut with a groan and his fists clench shut again. If there is one other thing in this world he does_ not_ want to think about at this moment it's their tequila fueled kiss in the rain.

"Because we are both adults, surely we can-"

"It's not that, okay?"

"Then what is it?" Her voice is soft with concern and he knows now the only thing he can do is tell her what he suspects she might already know somewhere inside that genius brain of hers.

"I hear bells."

"Bells? Like jingle bells?"

"Like jackpot bells."

"Oh." Realization hits her. "Oh!"

"I'm just having a harder time with it than I thought I would."

"This is a difficult environment for a reformed gambler."

"Yeah."

"You should have told me."

"I just did."

"You should have told me earlier."

"I thought I could handle it."

"But you can't?"

"The itch isn't going away. Usually it goes away, but this time…" he trails off.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

He lays staring at the ceiling. He feels tense still, but he also feels a little better. He wonders if what they say about sharing burdens is true. Maybe it really does lighten the load. He wonders what she is thinking.

"You can beat it, Booth." Her hand comes to rest on his, both feather-light and strong all at once. "You are the strongest man I know."

He remembers now how and why he beat it the first time.

The answer is lying right next to him, holding his hand.

"Thanks, Bones."

And finally he sleeps.

~Fin~

_The original prompt was: Booth and Brennan end up in bed together prior to actually being together. _


End file.
